


Cigarettes After Sex (The Art of Letting Go)

by MordorIsCalling



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Background Geralt/Yen - Freeform, Background Jaskier/Countess, Bisexual Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Bisexual Jaskier | Dandelion, Comfort Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends With Benefits, Heavy Angst, Infidelity, M/M, Oral Sex, Pining, Roommates, Singer Jaskier | Dandelion, Smoking, but they're best friends so there're no benefits only pain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:21:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29020383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MordorIsCalling/pseuds/MordorIsCalling
Summary: After Geralt dresses, he opens the window despite the fact that it’s cold outside and Jaskier is sprawled out naked on the bed.(It’s fucking Valentine’s Day.)“You should quit,” Geralt says, “it’s bad for you.”Jaskier sighs heavily, hating how much his best friend cares. “I’m aware,” he answers. Geralt stands there, black clothes and white hair contrasting with the grey-blue walls. Jaskier drinks him in and admits, “But I can’t stop.”OrGeralt and Jaskier love each other but pretend they don’t and everythinghurts.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 27
Kudos: 83





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> When I was studying yesterday, I put Marina"s "Electra Heart" to play in the background and somehow... this happened. I imagined Jaskier singing his heart out with the help of the songs (which I talked about in this tumblr post: https://mordoriscalling.tumblr.com/post/641414032010756096/i-really-gotta-stop-imagining-jaskier-singing-his). 
> 
> I wrote this instead of studying and sleeping. No regrets tho. The first part of the title of this fic is, of course, the title of the band Cigarettes After Sex. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! ❤️

Jaskier isn’t surprised to hear the words the moment he lights up a cigarette.  
  
“Stop smoking.”  
  
Jaskier ignores the gruff, pleasant voice and draws on the cigarette for the first time. The sweet rush of smoke fills his lungs and the hollowness in his chest is not a gaping hole anymore.

(Smoking distracts him from the other poison coursing through his body.)  
  
Breathing out, he looks at Geralt sitting on the other edge of the bed. His bare back is a sight to behold. Jaskier could admire it purely aesthetically, the way you do when you see a Greek statue at a museum, but he knows how those muscles move beneath his touch. He’s committed the smell of the beautifully scarred skin and the taste of it to his memory. Now that he looks at Geralt’s back, he wants to kiss the scars and trace his nose against the line of the broad shoulders, just to keep the memories more alive than they are, more burning than they already are.  
  
His mouth wants to do a few stupid things at once, so Jaskier draws on the cigarette again. He holds his breath, trapping the smoke inside, and makes his gaze travel up.  
  
Geralt peers at him over his shoulder, which is such a Geralt way of looking, and his almost-golden eyes are too warm for today, for now, for what they’ve just done. Jaskier exhales the smoke up in the air, not breaking the eye contact because he has to see the appreciative glint. No matter how much Geralt denies it, Jaskier knows he likes the sight of him smoking.  
  
“It’s my room,” he replies finally.  
  
Geralt scoffs. Turning away, he grumbles, “the fucking smell is everywhere.”  
  
“Gives you a headache, I know,” Jaskier says quietly as he watches Geralt walk around the bedroom, picking up all his clothes and putting them back on. He tries to admire Geralt’s body as an artwork that it is, but fails. He knows that body far too well, loves it in a way he shouldn’t.  
  
After Geralt dresses, he opens the window despite the fact that it’s cold outside and Jaskier is sprawled out naked on the bed.  
  
(It’s fucking Valentine’s Day.)  
  
“You should quit,” Geralt says, “it’s bad for you.”  
  
Jaskier sighs heavily, hating how much his best friend cares. “I’m aware,” he answers. Geralt stands there, black clothes and white hair contrasting with the grey-blue walls. Jaskier drinks him in and admits, “But I can’t stop.”  
  
Geralt hmms in displeasure and walks out of the room. He closes the door behind him, leaving ringing silence in his wake, and there’s nothing for Jaskier to focus on but his thoughts. Immediately, he feels hollow, so he draws on the cigarette hastily. As he finishes it, he contemplates on all this mess.  
  
It’s Valentine’s Day. He and Geralt have just fucked, again. The sex was so good – with the perfect amount of heat and connectedness – that Jaskier almost cried in the worst way. It didn’t mean what he wants it to. They just need the comfort because they’re both fools, drawn to “their” women like moths to a flame even though it _always_ ends in painful break-ups.

Geralt and Yennefer had a massive argument three days ago. Jaskier and Elisabeth discovered they’ve been cheating on each other yesterday. The events aligned in time in such a way that Jaskier and Geralt needed each other like this on 14th February.

(Celebrating with cigarettes after sex seems spot on.)

Jaskier puts the butt in the ashtray on his bedside table and wonders if this is ever going to end. He and Elisabeth, who is a woman so refined that calls her “the Countess”, have had the on-and-off relationship going on for five years at least. Gravitating towards her has become so deeply ingrained in him that he doesn’t even remember when it all began. He only recalls that he felt like a kid, back then. He was passionate about literature and so was that stunning woman ten years older than him. She knew exactly what she wanted, did just the right things, and Jaskier was mad about her in a flash.

She’s taught him a lot about the world and himself, always guiding him with a firm hand, which only works up to a point. Jaskier’s stubborn and wants her to yield to him too but she never does, fondly calling him a brat. Eventually, they both go to someone who gives them what they can’t find in each other. They do so love lying to one another, though.  
  
Jaskier is twenty-nine now and he can’t wait for his twenties to be over. In his head he dreams that turning thirty will solve all his problems. He will stop caring about unnecessary things. He will learn, finally, how to let go. He will stop.   
  
But then he sits alone in the kitchen after a pleasant evening with the Countess. They discussed poetry and drank wine but Jaskier could see that Elisabeth is drifting away from him. The good time isn’t going to last much longer and he hates it. It must show on his face because as Geralt walks in, he takes only one look at him and says his name in _that_ way, questioning and offering. Then, they’re kissing, undressing, and it’s too good to think of anything else. Geralt fucks him from behind, pressing their bodies close from head to toe and moaning into his neck. Then, they’re on the bed, Jaskier under Geralt. Geralt moves his hips slowly, almost making love to him, and they’re holding hands, looking into each other’s eyes. The sheer intimacy of it all nearly drives a helpless scream out of him. That week, Jaskier performs _Lies_ at a gig and promises himself: never again.

But then Geralt returns home, smelling of lilac and gooseberries, his cheek red. He says Jaskier’s name in that way, hesitant and pleading, and Jaskier is on his feet in an instant, peppering kisses all over his best friend’s wounds. Geralt submits to him completely, responding to his sweet words and praise like a flower basking in the sun. Nothing turns Jaskier on more than the sounds Geralt makes as he blows him and fingers him. Geral can only tug at his hair and beg. Then, Jaskier enters him, and he can’t help putting his forehead against Geralt’s. They breathe in each other’s scents, their lips brushing. Jaskier smells Yennefer’s perfume. He has to smoke three cigarettes in a row afterwards, and Geralt is once more so fucking concerned about his health. Two days later, he sings _The Starring Role_ to an enthralled audience and decides: this must come to an end.  
  
(But he can’t stop.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the lyrics of “Lies”:  
> You're never gonna love me, so what's the use?  
> What's the point in playing a game you're gonna lose?  
> What's the point in saying you love me like a friend?  
> What's the point in saying it's never gonna end?
> 
> The Starring Role:  
> You don't love me, big fucking deal  
> I'll never tell you how I feel  
> You don't love me, not a big deal  
> I'll never tell you how I feel  
> It almost feels like a joke to play a part  
> When you are not a starring role in someone else's heart  
> You know I'd rather walk alone, than play a supporting role  
> If I can't get the starring role
> 
> They hit _just right_. 
> 
> I'd definitely like to write more of this story, maybe Geralt's POV, Jaskier trying to quit smoking, and how they both finally sort out this shit. 
> 
> Anyway, I'd love to hear your thoughts, so please consider tossing a comment! 💛💙


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt's POV ahead :D

Geralt doesn’t smell cigarettes when he walks in. He’s been cursed with sharp senses all his life and it’s a blessing that the odour doesn’t assault his nose now.

(A wave of nausea hits him anyway and he almost wishes that it could be possible to throw up the emotions threatening to overwhelm him at any moment.)

Geralt goes to the kitchen, seeing that there’s no one there, and puts the liquid for Jaskier’s e-cigarette on the table. After three years of having to suffer the stench of normal cigarettes everywhere, Geralt finally convinced Jaskier to try using an e-cigarette last month. Jaskier hasn’t got back to traditional smoking since then. Geralt counts it as a win for them both.

Maybe this will help Jaskier succeed in quitting smoking for good. Geralt is worried about his best friend’s addiction often. He cares way too much and _hates_ it, even more than the odour of cigarettes.

Suddenly, he can barely breathe.

The living room is blissfully empty too. The grey, plush couch almost embraces him as he sits down. The yellow ceiling is the last thing he sees he sees before he closes his eyes and fights for air. 

Yennefer told him that she slept with Istredd.

(It’s April Fools.)

This could be it – the deal-breaker he doesn’t want to admit he’s been waiting for – but life in which he orbits around her is what he knows. Yen makes him feel _seen_ , understands him like no other. They share similar past, fears and emotional scars, although they’re different than were at the beginning, seven years ago. She’s an advisor to an MP and he’s a martial arts instructor. Geralt fears he won’t be able to keep her. He’s so used to having her that the thought of letting her go is terrifying.

Yen admitted to doing it for the sake of honesty – they were supposed to _try_ this time, goddamnit – and Geralt left before she could say anything else. He doesn’t need to know when. That truth in itself is enough.

(What a sick joke.)

There’s a noise coming from the hall, then the kitchen. Geralt wants to run and hide but he has no time to escape, so he only clenches his fists and braces himself.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks from the entrance of the room.

Geralt keeps his eyes closed tight. He can’t see Jaskier right now; he will fall apart if he as much as glances at him. Jaskier’s eyes and the flowing lines of his body will lure him in. He’ll fall for the promise of a moment of oblivion even though it’s everything but.

“Yen said –” he begins but breaks off, choking on anger and humiliation.

The sound of sure steps gets closer. The couch dips. Then, there’s Jaskier’s quiet voice, “I’m here if you need me.”

It’s like listening to a siren’s song. Geralt almost snarls because and he can’t handle this. The truth about him is that he isn’t strong, he just survives. Jaskier’s bright and dark, soft and sharp, entirely too much of everything, and Geralt is too weak not to be tempted by that fullness.

They’re best friends, though. Best friends talk about their problems.

“She... cheated,” Geralt forces the words out.

Utter stillness answers him. He doesn’t even hear Jaskier’s breathing for a moment until it returns in the form of a heavy, shaky sigh.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says hoarsely.

Geralt has to swallow down to stop his throat from constricting. There’s a gentle hand on his forearm. He recoils from the touch but Jaskier isn't deterred. He slowly starts doing his magic - a brush of his palm here, a soft word there - and eventually coaxes Geralt into getting up and going to his room.

(He stares firmly at the ground the whole time.)

Then, they lay in Geralt’s bed together, for the first time without any heat spurring them on. To Geralt, the heat is both a trap and a distraction from the deeper feeling swelling in his chest when they have sex. The emotion is hard to ignore but they turn each other on well enough, so he can pretend that it’s just fucking. 

Now, Jaskier runs his fingers through Geralt’s hair. The animal inside him howls and trashes in panic because he doesn’t want to be given comfort in this way, not when there’s no excuse for it. Nothing justifies the intimacy of Jaskier’s caress but it's so gentle that it puts him to sleep. 

When he wakes up, yesterday seems to be a distant nightmare. He can almost pretend that all of it never happened but there Jaskier is, sleeping next to him. His clothes are all wrinkled, his hair is a mess, and there’s a trail of fresh drool on his cheek. Geralt can see no flaw in him.

Jaskier and Geralt are best friends. Attached at the hip for a decade already, everyone knows that. Yet, there are some days like this, when Geralt wishes Jaskier had never happened. If Jaskier had never come into his life, Geralt’s attraction to men probably would’ve remained unacknowledged, or at least not acted upon.

But here they are: Geralt watching his best friend sleep, greedily taking in all his imperfections like they’re a gift.

Geralt’s phone starts ringing, ruining the peace. He already knows who’s calling but he reaches to pull the phone out of his pocket anyway.

“Is it _her_?”

Jaskier’s gaze is still bleary from sleep but it’s also hardened, steely.

“Don’t pick up,” he says. 

Geralt frowns. The loud ringtone is insistent. He looks down at the caller’s ID and sees Yennefer’s name. A photo of her is displayed on the screen, her beautiful eyes looking straight at him, hypnotising him.

The phone is snatched out of his grasp. His reflexes are fast but he catches on a moment too late and doesn't manage to take it back. 

Jaskier declines the call and asks, all nonchalant, “Should I text her? Something along the lines of _I can’t forgive you, we’re not getting back together ever again_.”

“That’s my decision to make,” Geralt grits out. 

“Don’t go back to her.”

Geralt scoffs, because Jaskier is _just_ the one to talk about not returning to your ex, then extends his hand and demands, “Give me my phone.”

“No.”

“Fucking give it back, Jaskier,” he snarls.

“Fucking make me,” Jaskier growls.

This time, his fighting instincts kick in immediately. He overpowers Jaskier in a matter of seconds, pinning him down to the bed. Their faces are a few inches apart and Geralt is drowning in Jaskier’s eyes before he knows it.

Their mouths clash together and the kiss is angry at first, with too much teeth, but then Jaskier combs his hands through his hair. Geralt lets out a broken groan, hiding his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, breathing in his scent. It’s too heady and he has to distract himself from how much he loves it, so he grinds his hips down against Jaskier’s.

They both moan at the friction and keep rolling their hips, their erections rubbing against each other through their trousers. It would be perfectly desperate if not for the way they touch each other, sensual and knowing, or the way they kiss, passionate but unrushed.

When they’ve taken off half of their clothes, Jaskier whispers into his ear, “I want to ride you.”

Geralt can only give in.

Soon after that, they’re fully naked. Geralt puts on a condom and uses the lube, and Jaskier starts lowering himself on his cock. He’s very tight and Geralt has to take a steadying breath not to come. As Jaskier gives himself some time to adjust, Geralt admires what an erotic sight he makes – lean, muscular, hirsute body completely exposed, red lips parted obscenely. Geralt wants to devour him.

Jaskier starts moving then, drawing a moan out of both of them. He sets a slow pace at first but quickly speeds up, making Geralt mad with lust. Just when he's close, Jaskier begins slowing down, staring down at him with a cheeky smirk. Geralt snaps up his hips and fucks Jaskier until they’re a mess.

When Geralt is about to come, Jaskier is still on top, way too far away. Geralt grabs him by the nape and brings his body close. The best kind of pleasure shots through him when Jaskier is pressed to him like this, when he can taste Jaskier’s mouth and skin. 

Afterwards, Jaskier takes his e-cigarette and starts smoking, because of course he put it on Geralt’s bedside table before they fell asleep.

“Stop smoking,” Geralt grunts. 

Jaskier huffs, shaking his head with a smile. He continues smoking and Geralt watches him, his gaze too drawn to the elegant curve of Jaskier's neck.

“You deserve better, Geralt,” Jaskier says quietly. 

Geralt has nothing to say to that. 

(The sweet smell of the smoke coming from Jaskier’s e-cigarette is sickening.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it, please consider tossing a comment 💛💙


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't decide where to go with this story and racked my brains about it for the past week but now I finally have some ideas, so here is the next chapter. A bit short but I hope you like it! :D

Jaskier turns thirty in June. His family and friends threw him an amazing birthday party. He remembers it very fondly, even if he can recall only around half of it. Due to the warmth of the memories, there’s a small smile on his lips as his fingers dance over the strings of the guitar in his lap.

The evening is quiet. Geralt left a few hours ago to god-knows-where. Jaskier probably should’ve too, but inspiration holds him in a firm grip. Lyrics and notes are coming to him so fast that his head almost spins as he tries to piece it into a new song, yet another one he’s composed recently.

Covering Marina’s songs has made him something of a sensation in the city. His gigs are now highly requested and he’s making enough money to support himself without any other job. The success is thrilling but the crowd's elation after each of his performances is even more so. Their joy has him high every time, and it helps him find his own words.

He tries not to think about the fact that his career is taking off thanks to his heartbreak. 

(It’s Father’s Day.)

He tries to convince himself that it’s worth it.

(His dad was concerned about him when they talked on the phone.)

The front door opens. Jaskier plays on, practising the melody he’s come up with, and also listens to Geralt move about the flat. He isn’t surprised to hear Geralt retreat to his own room but he _is_ taken aback when Geralt knocks a few minutes later, asking if he can come in.

“Yes, sure,” Jaskier replies, putting the guitar and all the paper sheets aside.

When Geralt walks in, Jaskier’s stunned by the way he looks in the light of the setting sun falling into the room. His appearance will never stop taking Jaskier’s breath away, especially that he knows the beautifully flawed person underneath.

(There’s nothing to worry about, of course.)

Geralt sits down on the bed next to Jaskier. There’s something different about him; the line of his shoulders is relaxed and there’re tiny hints of excitement written over his features. Jaskier grins and waits for him to speak.

“I met with Yen.”

Immediately, Jaskier’s smile vanishes. His throat constricts and his gut twists in a sick sort of anticipation. He itches for the e-cigarette – the sweet rush of nicotine would calm him down – but refrains and stays quiet. Geralt goes on. 

“We just... talked and joked. She hugged me when we said goodbye but that was it.”

Geralt seems so _happy_ about it. His gorgeous eyes catch the sunlight, turning into the colour of flaming gold, and his lips are quirked just a little bit, in that way Jaskier adores.

“Geralt, that’s wonderful!” he gushes, “I told you two can just stay friends.”

Jaskier really tried his damnedest to make Geralt understand that Yennefer’s infidelity should be the final straw. Now, as he sees Geralt’s rare smile, he’s so very proud of his best friend that he can barely think straight.

The thing is, Jaskier is well aware that he’s a walking disaster. Yet, as he takes Geralt’s face into his hands and kisses him on the mouth because he just loves him so, he _cannot believe_ his own idiocy. The moment Jaskier realises what he’s done, bile rises up his throat.

He tears himself from Geralt with a broken gasp and turns his head away.

“Jaskier?” Geralt murmurs uncertainly.

Jaskier closes his eyes. He doesn’t have to look to know that Geralt’s staring at him with wide eyes, frozen in shock. Jaskier focuses on the sounds outside - birds sing loudly, their voices mingling with the hum of the city - and fights for breath.

The thing is, Geralt doesn’t need him like this anymore. Geralt isn’t hurting; he and Yennefer started working towards a healthy friendship. Jaskier had no excuse at all to kiss him, no reason but his feelings.

They’ve been friends for so long, though.

Jaskier gets up and blindly grabs his wallet, phone and keys, then rushes out of the flat, deaf to Geralt’s calls of his name. After leaving, he wanders around the streets aimlessly, holding back tears as a storm rages inside him. He really wishes for inner peace when his legs carry him to a convenience store.

He buys a pack of cigarettes.

Jaskier smokes the first one on his way to the nearest park. For a blessed moment, his mind is quiet, and he observes the people he passes by. Men, women, couples, mothers and fathers with their children, a group of young men who laugh and joke loudly.

They remind him of himself at uni, mischievous and reckless. He really was devoted to living his life to the fullest back then, and to tasting the joys of his bisexuality in particular. Jaskier remembers that day when he discovered he was attracted to men, early into his and Geralt’s friendship. Geralt wore a very tight t-shirt and as Jaskier watched the way his shoulders rocked as he walked, it dawned on him that he likes the movement the same way he enjoys the swing of a woman’s hips. 

When he reaches the park, it takes Jaskier a long minute to find a free bench – it _is_ a lovely, warm evening – and when he finally succeeds, he sits down and tries not to think of Geralt. Predictably, he fails. His mind wanders to the memories of how it feels to be pinned down by the heavy weight of Geralt’s body, to how that stunning body trembles when Geralt’s close, to the smell of Geralt’s sweat.

The phone in his pocket buzzes. With a frown, Jaskier pulls it out to see a message from the Countess displayed on the screen.

_I miss you._

A slightly manic laugh escapes his lips. The people who walk by eye him warily and Jaskier doesn’t blame them; his face must be twisted into an ugly grimace. After all, Elisabeth didn’t even come to his birthday party.

Jaskier lights up another cigarette. Geralt’s going to be so disappointed but fuck it. Geralt’s moving on. 

He sends a text back and tells himself that all is well. 

_I miss you too. Can I drop by?_

(His dad was right.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my, what a mess.


End file.
